


"The Hottest Party This Side of Salem", or a Very Poe Halloween Party.

by coldairballoons



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: "I think Emily Dickinson's a lesbian", (She is it's just not brought up in this. But Emily Dickinson is a Lesbian TM.), Awkward Conversations, Awkwardness, Bisexual Male Character, Edgar and Emily: The Bromance That Never Was, F/M, Fluff, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Introversion, M/M, Other, Polyamorous Character, pop culture references, shipwrecked comedy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27010927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldairballoons/pseuds/coldairballoons
Summary: Edgar Allan Poe did not do holidays.Lenore the Lady Ghost most certainly did.
Relationships: Edgar Allan Poe & Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe/Annabel Lee, Ernest Hemingway/H. G. Wells, H.G. Wells/Lenore/Guy de Vere, Lenore/Guy de Vere, Lenore/H.G. Wells
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	"The Hottest Party This Side of Salem", or a Very Poe Halloween Party.

**Author's Note:**

> This started a week ago when I said to myself "Hm. I'm in a Halloween mood, let's write Poe Party fanfiction."
> 
> And lo and behold, this monster was born.

Edgar Allan Poe did not celebrate holidays. In his opinion, what was the use of celebrating a day of the year where something terrible inevitably happened? Christmas, there was a birth, but also countless deaths, as there were every day of the year. Thanksgiving, 90% of the native population of America was wiped out, but hey, lots of food, yummy yummy. Easter, if he believed in it,  _ some dude was nailed to a cross _ . That had to be painful. And yet, he saw people celebrating, laughing, drinking, joking around.

But Halloween? Halloween, he could handle. A time for lurking, a time when his generally dark demeanor finally,  _ finally _ fit in with the outside world. A time where his ghostly roommate could leave him alone for a night to go to the “hottest party this side of Salem” and Edgar could do whatever he wanted for the night. Which, if we’re being honest, was what he did every other day of the year; lurk alone in his house and brood, reading, writing poems, staring at a wall and questioning the meaning of life, whether he would die within the second. 

Also, ravens.

But this year, he could tell, would be different. Maybe this year, he would finally leave the house and do something, whether it was just walk around a graveyard and mournfully recount his life story to a skull, or maybe sit on the front porch and stare up at the moon and wonder if there was in fact, a reason for anything that happened in his pitiful, pitiful life. Lenore had insisted she had a surprise for him, but knowing her, it was probably a veil, like the one she’d made him on the anniversary of her death, or her “ghostification date”, as she started calling it. Or maybe a flower, she always did like to bring those to him to try to help him “get over it”, whatever  _ it _ was. 

He picked up a book, halfheartedly turning it in his hand. One of Lenore’s boyfriend’s books, something about an invisible man. Interesting enough, he supposed, and opened it up, beginning to tiredly read. And for a moment, he did. Actually, this guy wasn’t such a bad writer...

But then, there was a knock at his door, and the book went flying across the room in his panic. Part of him wanted to go to the door, the other part just wanted them to  _ go _ , it wasn’t anything important, right? So rather than get up and go open the door, because that would take  _ effort _ , (imagine), he got up, grabbed the book, and took a seat once more.

He flipped open the book, beginning to read again, before the knocking started up again, and a groan came from the kitchen, where there was the suspicious smell of cinnamon and pumpkins and a wet squelching noise, probably Lenore. “Are you gonna get that, Doctor Doom?”

Edgar glared at the kitchen, but obviously, for obviously obvious reasons, Lenore did not respond to his  _ master _ death-glare. Obviously. He stood up, setting the book down, and stretched his arms for a moment before another knock came, and he rolled his eyes. “In a moment!”

The effort was put in, and finally, Edgar was at the door, opening it with the desperate hope that it wasn’t one of those people trying to sell him something. It was never anything interesting, either, usually just a form of lotion, or maybe a subscription to a magazine, which he had no use for. But thankfully, it wasn’t, it was just Ernest Hemingway. 

...wait. 

“Hey--” Ernest started, before Edgar shut the door in his face, eyes wide, and turned to the kitchen. There was a muffled grunt from behind the door, and then the knocking started up again. “Hey, Poe, what gives?”

Edgar looked at the door handle, then at the hallway to the kitchen, then back at the handle, then back at the hallway. “Lenore?”

“Yyyyyeah?” Lenore called back, humming a bit as she worked on whatever she was working on in the kitchen. Whatever it was, it… smelled surprisingly good. He’d have to ask her about it later--- _ stay on track, Poe _ . 

He glanced back at the door. “What’s Ernest Hemingway doing here?”

“Oh!” There was the sound of something plastic being set down, and then a clattering, like whatever it was had knocked something off of a counter. Lenore groaned, and there was a bit more clattering. “I invited him!”

Edgar laughed a little bit. “Good joke, Lenore. You… had me fooled for a moment.” Because Lenore did not throw parties, did not invite people, without checking with Edgar first. The last time this had happened was a disaster, they didn’t even get to entrées before there were debates and arguments, and, oh, yeah, death threats. “Seriously, what is he doing here? Do I need to let him in?”

Lenore groaned, and walked out of the kitchen, wearing an apron over her wedding dress, which normally would have made him laugh a little bit, but at the moment? He was pretty sure he would not be laughing. “Let him  _ in _ , Deetz, he’s a guest.”

“A…” Edgar stepped aside as Lenore walked over to the door, opening it and smiling. “A guest.”

“Yep!” She chirped, and with a voice that was too cheerful for how she pulled Edgar aside so that Ernest could pass, greeted him. “Hi! So sorry about Edgar, you know how he gets with people.” 

Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I do know.” He grinned a bit, offering a hand to Edgar. “Hey, hey, hello, sorry about the whole… thing, last time, hope everything is good. Hope Annabel’s doing well? Are the two of you…?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and while it took Edgar a moment to realize what he was implying, when the realization struck him, his eyes widened. 

“No! No--no, no, ha…” Edgar looked at Lenore with a face that said  _ help me, please-- _ but she laughed a bit, heading back off towards the kitchen. He groaned internally, before giving Ernest a fake, forced smile. “No. I… we’re good, yes, she is… good. She is dead, but…”  _ She is dead, but she is good? Wow, excellent.  _ “...alive…?” 

(From the kitchen, Lenore face-palmed. God, her roomie was an idiot.)

Ernest raised an eyebrow, clearly realizing that this was going to be a long night, the sentiment of which was entirely shared by Edgar, and he sighed, gesturing inside with a tired hand. “Just go in. Don’t break anything.”

“You got it, friendo.” With that, Ernest headed into the living room, and Edgar could finally exhale, because… nope, then there was a clattering from the living room, and Edgar groaned, hitting his head on the wall. “Did  _ not _ see that there!” Came a shout, and if he could groan any louder, Edgar definitely would.

“What did I just say?” He called, rolling his eyes, and Edgar turned to walk inside, before there was another knock at the closed door. He paused, pivoting around to look at the door as if it was his worst enemy in the entire world. The door seemed to stare back, grinning, and Edgar narrowed his eyes as he opened the door again to reveal a certain Louisa May Alcott outside. “Ah! Louisa May, welcome… what are you wearing?”

She gave him a wide smile, and Edgar immediately regretted asking. “It’s a model of a Salix babylonica, but I turned it into a hat!” In all honesty, Edgar started zoning out the moment she said “model”, but he nodded intently. “It’s one of my favorite trees, the weeping willow. You’d like it, Edgar, it’s a lot like you. If people were trees…”

Edgar just kept awkwardly smiling and nodding. One could only talk about trees for so long, right?

Wrong.

Ten minutes later, Edgar was blinking furiously to stay awake, nodding intently still, as Louisa rambled on and on about trees. Turns out, getting killed didn’t stop her obsession with natural life, in fact, the lack of a breathing necessity only enhanced her ability to talk, and  _ she just didn’t stop _ . 

At some point, he ushered her into the living room, to unleash her plant-ridden wrath upon Ernest, who was laying on the couch, drinking something out of a flask from his hip. She strolled into the living room, sitting on his armchair and beginning to ramble once more about plants, and Ernest shot a glance at Edgar. This was evidently torture for him, but Edgar just grinned… internally of course.

Ah, oh well. He told the two of them to “play nice”, and after a rather rude hand gesture from Ernest, headed to the kitchen to ask Lenore what exactly she was planning for the night. 

The smell of something sickeningly pumpkin-y wafted over Edgar as he walked into the kitchen, and besides the fact that she had  _ used his bowls without asking first, those weren’t even for food, _ he had to admit the domesticity of it was charming. Lenore waved him over, setting down a platter of something shockingly orange. “Hey there, Sally Sparrow, what’s going on?”

“What are you doing?” Edgar rolled his eyes at the nickname, leaning up against the table. “And why didn’t you tell me about the party? I can do parties.” 

Lenore raised an eyebrow at him. “You. Edgar Allan “Hide In My Room And Write Depressing Poems About How Depressing My Life Is” Poe. Can do parties?” She snorted, shaking her head. “Seeing how the last one went, I just thought it would be better as a surprise. Plus, it’s Halloween, you’ve gotta let yourself go once in a while.”

Sighing, Edgar picked up one of the orange things, sniffing it warily, before popping it into his mouth. ...hm. Not too bad. “I guess… what is this?”

“Oh! Those! They’re pumpkin cake balls, Anna’s idea.” Lenore grinned at him. “She helped me make them, actually, she’s pretty awesome.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Even thinking about Annabel made Edgar’s face flush, his heart flutter in a way it never had before. “And did you know she can dance?”

“And how would you know, Skeletor?” Lenore looked at him with a raised eyebrow, and Edgar spluttered a bit.  _ No, wait, THE Edgar Allan Poe did not dance. That was a fact.  _ “I--I--um.”

The two stared at each other for a moment, before Lenore started to laugh, shoving his shoulder playfully. “Seriously, Edgar, I’m kidding, seriously.”

“You’d better be.” He replied, face cold---clearly ignoring his flush. “Anyways, have you seen Annabel anywhere? I’ve meant to talk to her about… something.”

“Oooh, something?” Lenore wiggled her eyebrows, and Edgar rolled his eyes as she leaned forward, dipping her finger in orange frosting, and swiped it across his nose. “She’s upstairs. Tell her hi for me, and tell her not to forget the joint costume plan! Also, tell her to get down here and help me frost this cake, and also--”

“Is that it?” Edgar sighed, wiping the frosting off of his nose. 

“Yep! Go forth and be in love!” She waved a hand dramatically, raising a hand towel to her eyes to playfully dab, as though she was a maiden sending her husband off to war, but Edgar just rolled his eyes, grabbing a handful of flour and tossing it at her. Lenore’s affronted look and offended “Edgar!” was enough to make him start to laugh as he walked out of the kitchen, heading upstairs to find his Annabel Lee.

The stairs had always been one of Edgar’s least favorite parts of his house, he thought to himself, as he stumbled over a loose step. Mentally, he made the note to fix that, but at a later date. Yes, definitely later, he decided, as he looked up and saw Annabel Lee standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at him. 

She looked positively radiant, the lights behind her giving her a sort of ethereal glow, a halo, almost. Lenore would call him a sap, but it was true. It was as though she was his angel, and all Edgar could do was stare at her with a dopey, lovestruck look on his face.

“Hello, Edgar.” Annabel smiled at him, offering her hand, and he looked at it for a moment, wondering now on Earth he got so lucky as to have the woman of his dreams standing before him, offering him her  _ hand _ , before taking it. He smiled up at her, and Annabel just looked at him, before he leaned up to kiss her cheek. God, he always loved it when she giggled as he kissed her, she was so adorable…

After a moment of just staring at her, Edgar laughed a little bit. “Hello, Annabel Lee. Annabel. I… was just coming up to find you, there are guests downstairs, and I…” He looked up at her, and for the first time, realized  _ why _ precisely he had compared her to an angel---for in fact, she wore a white dress and fake angel wings, along with golden eye makeup, which… suited her perfectly… in a moment, he reconsidered his statement “...I am afraid I don’t have a costume…” 

Annabel raised an eyebrow, and Edgar fell even more in love with her as she brushed some hair out of her face. “Has Lenore not given you yours yet?”

“No?”

With a giggle, Annabel lightly pulled him upstairs, leading him to his bedroom, and part of Edgar was hoping she would shut the door and they could spend the night together, but the other was… oddly interested to see what Lenore had picked out for him. After all, once H.G. had found out how exactly to produce clothing  _ for _ ghosts, Lenore had gone a… tad overboard. But she usually had good taste, and for a moment, Edgar was excited.

Until he saw what was on the bed. 

“...no.” 

An all-black outfit rested on the bed in front of him, with a pair of black “wings”, a black cloak and… a name tag that said “Raven” in Lenore’s swoopy handwriting. He just stared at it for a moment, almost in awe. “...did she seriously--”

“Yes, I believe she did.” Annabel giggled a bit, and Edgar had the strange feeling she had played a hand in this costume selection. And for that, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of happiness, gratefulness, even, at the choice. “Though, it does suit you, doesn’t it?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, taking a corner of the cloak and running it between his fingers. It was soft, softer than anything else he owned, and Edgar sighed, looking up at Annabel with a defeated grin. “I suppose it does.”

Annabel helped him get changed, and while Edgar would have loved to gush on and on about his beautiful, beautiful,  _ beautiful  _ Annabel Lee, he was so transfixed on her eyes that by the time he was fully redressed, this time in a black sweater over a black button down, Edgar had forgotten any words  _ other _ than her name. Had he always been this infatuated with one Annabel Lee? Entirely and completely so, but this just seemed surreal. 

With an exchanged smile, the two of them linked arms and began to walk downstairs. Edgar found it quite difficult to tear his eyes away from Annabel, but it wasn’t until he stumbled over that damn step that he finally watched where he was going. While the two were upstairs, apparently another horde of guests had arrived---namely, Mary Shelley, Oscar Wilde, George Eliot-slash-Mary Anne Evans, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Charlotte Bronte, and, upon Lenore’s request, one (ugh) Eduardo Dantes-slash-Edward de Vere VI and Guy de Vere.

Edgar took one look at the room, which was filled with chatter, drunken flirting (on account of Ernest getting ahold of one of Fyodor’s bottles of vodka), not-so-drunken flirting (on account of Lenore finally getting out of the kitchen and holding onto H.G.’s hand, kissing his cheek, then Guy’s, who seemed ever-intent not to leave her side again.)

In the end, Edgar was actually happy for Lenore. She had finally gotten a happy ending---Krishanti was able to bring Guy back from wherever he had ended up, and while the two had a hard time adapting to each other’s demise, and Lenore’s new relationship with the inventor, in the end, they were happy. Lenore got two partners, Guy got his ill-fated bride back, and H.G. got a chance, as he told Edgar, at happiness.

(And, if Edgar was being perfectly honest, Guy and H.G. did seem to be getting along very well. When Lenore was with Annabel on their “girl’s nights”, Edgar had been invited to more than one evening spent with the two lovers of the Lady Ghost, where they sat in the living room, chatting about one thing or another, usually turning into rambling about their loves. He knew the glances of the inventor by now, the small smile that appeared on his lips when he looked at Lenore, and if he saw that same smile when he turned to look at Guy, well, Edgar just hoped the best.)

But Eddie Dantes was another story. Edgar had pushed against his resurrection, but Lenore had insisted. Guy had lost enough, and learning of his brother was hard, especially considering how much faith he had in him, what with how their family life had ended up after Guy’s death, the stories about what had happened, why Eddie had gone away for business all those times without so much as a note.

Lenore had insisted, and even though it hurt Edgar more than he could say to see Annabel’s face when Eddie Dantes appeared at their doorstep, in the long run, it was for the better. And as much as he hated the man, Edgar gave him a curt nod as he walked into the living room, arm in arm with Annabel, which was reciprocated by the banker.

Looking away from Eddie, Edgar gave Annabel a small smile as he let go of her, kissing her cheek. She was a social butterfly, much like their ghostly roommate, and Edgar didn’t want to keep her from interacting with anyone, so he just smiled at her. “I love you, Annabel Lee.”

Annabel gave him a smile in return, cupping his cheek. “And I love you, Edgar.” Someone called her name, and before turning away to find them, she leaned in to kiss Edgar softly, smiling against his lips.

With a smile, Edgar walked over to his armchair, which, thankfully, was free from any current occupation, and sat down, looking around the room. Fyodor was deep in discussion with Mary, who was nodding intently over a glass of wine, smiling. 

“I do not understand, is… Frankenstein… the monster?” The man said, frowning a bit as he tried to figure it out. “Is he not the monster through creating the other monster?”

“That all depends on what your definition of monster  _ is _ , Mr. Dostoyevsky.” Mary smiled mysteriously, taking a sip of her wine. “But, yes. In essence, are they not both monsters? Cast out of society, one by choice and one thrust out by the confines of what is or is not normal?”

Fyodor’s eyes widened. “That… is brilliant.”

Edgar laughed a little bit to himself as Mary smiled, a real, genuine smile, more than what he’d ever seen her smile before. “That means the world, Mr. Dostoyevsky. The entire world, thank you.” She said, raising her glass in toast to him, which was reciprocated by Fyodor.

“To you, Miss Shelley.” Fyodor responded, raising a shot to clink against her glass. 

Edgar looked away from them, turning instead to where Ernest was talking to H.G., the inventor looking far more comfortable than he would have expected in conversation with Ernest Hemingway. In fact, he was staring quite admirably at the other man, which confused Edgar just a bit, as… well, Ernest had been anything but welcoming to H.G. initially, insulting his writing… 

Perhaps they had gone through a bit of growth together, Edgar thought to himself, as H.G. reached out slightly to take Ernest’s hand, an action that he had always thought Ernest would flinch away from, but apparently not, as he gladly took H.G.’s hand in his own, raising it to his lips to kiss softly. The inventor giggled softly, instead moving his hand to cup Ernest’s cheek,

...okay, that was definitely a private moment, and Edgar looked away hurriedly. He figured Lenore and H.G. had talked about this, they talked about everything together, so there was no reason to worry. Instead, his vision focused on Charlotte and Oscar, sitting together on the couch where Oscar was using rather large (and profane) gestures to get a point across in a story he was telling.

“And then, I told Byron, I told him, you can’t just bring your  _ doctor _ along on this trip, although…” Oscar laughed a little bit to himself. “Between you and me, Ms. Bronte, I  _ highly _ doubt that was a  _ purely professional _ relationship, if you understand what I mean.”

Charlotte laughed haughtily, taking a sip of her drink. “Oh, I  _ entirely _ understand, Mr. Wilde. And Byron, did he take your advice?”

“Absolutely…  _ not _ .” He snorted, shaking his head. “When has that man ever listened to me?”

“Fair.” She replied, rolling her eyes. “Ugh, have I told you yet about the dinner I had with Virginia Woolf yet?” 

Oscar raised his eyebrows, leaning forward. “Do tell.”

“Well, it all began one evening…” 

Edgar couldn’t listen anymore, this commonplace gossip was entirely not his cup of tea. He sighed to himself, getting up, and walked over to the table Lenore and Annabel had set up, pouring himself a cup of… something red, with a fruity smell he couldn’t quite place, He raised it to his nose and sniffed, and frowned, taking a tentative sip of it. ...fruity, again, but not too unpleasant. He shrugged, taking another sip as he wandered over towards the kitchen, which, thankfully, wasn’t too crowded.

Not crowded at all, actually, Edgar thought, as he sat down on the counter, sighing, before a small, quiet voice coughed awkwardly. “Um, Mr. Poe?”

“Hm?” Edgar turned, but there wasn’t--oh. “Oh. Hello, who…?”

“...Emily Dickinson?” 

“...right.” Okay, to be honest, Edgar did not know  _ who _ this woman was, or why she was seemingly hiding in his kitchen, but for a moment, he just ignored her… until he heard her shaky sigh, and what seemed like crying. “Are you alright?”

Emmy wiped her eyes, nodding and laughing a bit. “Yes, Mr. Poe, I am, I’m sorry, I… I’m just invisible to everyone, you know? I don’t know why I bothered coming again, it’s all the same.”

“Oh.” That… resonated with him, for some reason, and he awkwardly patted her shoulder, not entirely sure how to comfort her. “I… am sorry, Erma.”

“It’s Emily?” Edith replied, sniffling. “Emily Dickinson--see, this is what I’m talking about!”

“I--I don’t.  _ See _ , that is--”

“You know what?” Elena shook her head, standing up. “I’ve had enough! I’m standing up for myself, I’m tired of being put into the background!” She glared at Edgar, and he raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not nobody!”   
  
“...I know that--”

“I am not!”

Eloise took one last look at Edgar, and then walked out of the kitchen, leaving him confused and alone, blinking at the empty space in front of him. But then, something caught his eye, and he frowned, reaching out and picking up a slip of cream-colored paper. Written on it, a small poem…

“I hide myself within my flower,

That wearing on your breast,

You, unsuspecting, wear me too —

And angels know the rest.

I hide myself within my flower,

That, fading from your vase,

You, unsuspecting, feel for me

Almost a loneliness.”

Edgar read those words again, and again, and again, until they seemed to blur in his vision, and even then, he just reread them again. Something in his heart broke as he looked at the paper, and in an instant, made the decision to go look for this poet, springing up from the counter and following in her trail. 

He walked down the hallway, poking his head into bedrooms, closets, until he finally reached the study, looking in to see one Emily Dickinson (yes, now he remembered her name!) sitting on a chair, flipping idly through a book. She looked up as he walked in, and smiled, almost as though she was preparing herself for the worst. “Have you come to taunt me again, Mr. Poe?”

“I have not.” He took a seat on an ottoman, leaning forward to look at her. His legs were crunched almost uncomfortably, as she was a sizable amount smaller than him, but he didn’t mind at the moment. (Well, he did, but…) “I… have come to… apologize, Miss Dickinson.”

Emily’s---yes, Emily’s---eyes widened, and she clasped a hand over her mouth. “You… my name, you remembered it…”

“Of course I did, I…” Edgar laughed awkwardly, smiling at her. “...I suppose we’re a lot alike, Miss Dickinson. Far more alike than I had ever realized. We both share a certain… isolation, is that right?” He cocked his head, and his fellow poet nodded, smiling shyly. “Isolation, whether by choice or by… being… outcast by society.”

And all of a sudden, something a certain Miss Shelley said came to mind. Edgar paused, and smiled. That was unintentional, but… he was proud, just a bit. “I suppose the two of us, we’re alike  _ because  _ we reject society, because we prefer the inside rather than the out, is that right?”

Emily nodded, smiling, and Edgar had never known how it was to be  _ understood _ by someone, not until now. “Mr. Poe…” Emily started, and then paused, as though she was preparing to be interrupted. (When she wasn’t, she let out a little “oh!” sound, and giggled nervously.) “Mr. Poe, I… must say, I’m very glad you came to me. I’ve… been wanting to talk to you for quite some time, but every time I tried, I realized that you wouldn’t notice me.”

With a smile, Edgar shook his head. “Well, Miss Dickinson, it would be an honor to… be your… friend, should you want that.” In fact, it was what Edgar wanted, wholeheartedly, but it was really up to Emily. 

For a moment, Edgar was worried she would turn his offer down, but then she started tearing up, wiping her eyes hastily. “I--yes, yes, please, I would love that, Mr. Poe.” She caught herself, then paused. “...Edgar.”

“...Emily.” Edgar responded, and the two of them shared a smile. “You know, I’ve never been one for parties, and should you just like to stay in here and talk, read, sit in silence, together, I would… quite appreciate the company.”

Emily smiled at him, nodding. “I would love that.”

“Oh.” Edgar nodded, then it hit him. “Oh! You--would! Oh, that… yes, that is… very good. I… also, I must say, your poetry is lovely.”

“You think so?”

“I do.” He nodded once more, handing her the slip of paper. “You dropped this, upon your exit from the kitchen.” Emily’s face flushed, and she nodded, taking the paper back. “...I read it, I hope you don’t mind…”

Her eyes widened. “I--you read my poetry?”

“And once more,” he leaned back a little bit, offering a small smile, “I loved it. It is lovely, Emily, as is your company.”

(From the other room, Lenore’s roommate senses were tingling. She grinned a little bit, taking a sip of her wine. For someone so introverted and lonely, so clearly anti-holidays and anti-friends, Edgar certainly did seem to be having a good time at this party… hosted by a friend for friends. Ah, well, Edgar’s life surely was full of contradictions and paradoxes. And maybe this was one of them… for the better.)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments brighten my day! Please message me on Tumblr, Discord or TikTok (coldairballoons on T/TT, coldairballoons#9556 on Discord) for requests or just to chat! :D


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